What You Won't Do For Love

By Wendy Coakley-Thompson

A failed engagement and a partnership in a new e-learning firm have led thirty-six-year-old Chaney Braxton from New York to Washington, D.C.  Orphaned as a child, and now betrayed by her fiancé, Chaney’s through dealing with things that die, leave—or wilt. In fact, she’s got a new mantra: No plants, no pets, no peni

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duho Books
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999491959

Wendy Coakley-Thompson

I'm the author of Writing While Black, Triptych, Back to Life (2004 Romantic Times Award nominee), and What You Won't Do For Love (optioned for cable television). I'm also Examiner.com's DC Publishing Industry Examiner. I've written for music and fashion/lifestyle magazines in both New Jersey and The Bahamas. I co-hosted The Book Squad with Karyn Langhorne Folan and earned an Associated Press/Chesapeake Award for my work as a commentator for Metro Connection on WAMU, a Washington D.C. National Public Radio affiliate.

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What You Won’t Do for Love

Copyright © 2018, 2005 by Wendy Coakley-Thompson, Inc.

Cover Art by Chris Master

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ePUB ISBN: 978-0-9994919-5-9

Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9994919-4-2

Print ISBN: 978-0-9994919-3-5

Published by Duho Books. Printed in the United States of America.

www.duhobooks.com

Acknowledgments

To all of those who facilitated the first iteration of this, my second child, so many years ago, especially...

The Almighty, for everything…

Die-hard family and friends who have provided unflagging support and encouraged me to persist, particularly my sister-in-law, Chun Cha Thompson, sarang hae…

Countless booksellers who showed me much love…

Sari Horwitz and Michael Ruane, whose book Sniper: Inside the Hunt for the Killers Who Terrorized the Nation provided a 360-view of those twenty-three awful days in October 2002, when two snipers terrorized the DMV…

Janell Walden-Agyeman for the launch into The Dream…

My beautiful Sorors of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated…

The gang at Marino\WARE in South Plainfield, NJ and Griffin, GA, especially Bob Booth and Lee Harrington…

Bad-ass warriors Ian D. Brasure, U.S.M.C. and Waheed Khan, U.S.M.C.…

Tomeshia Hubbard, D.V.M., Renee Green, D.V.M., Bernard Vincellette, D.V.M., and Traci-Liegh Curran…

In loving memory of my uncle Kenneth Leon Thompson (1909–2003)—the real KL—Jessica McLean, the amazing Jamaican goddess who I miss in the quiet moments, and, finally, Hunter, the inspiration for Tony Braxton who is probably retrieving spitty tennis balls in Doggy Heaven…

Much love and infinite thanks.

PROLOGUE

April 1997

It was dark and cool under the cotton sheet, breeze generated by her movement playing against the film of sweat on Chaney’s bare skin. She had him in her mouth…sucking and relaxing, ascending and descending on him, her nose hitting the dark curls between his thighs with a staccato rhythm. The deliciously musky scent of him filled her nostrils as she breathed in on one, out on two. She loved giving head…in general and to him in particular. He was her man, and level-headed woman that she was in the rest of her life, in bed, she would’ve done anything to please him.

But tonight was more of the same, lately. His explosive response, which used to be on cue like Old Faithful, was conspicuously absent. He was soft and limp as an overripened banana. And she was distracted too, wondering how she was going to tell him, why she would consider leaving him. So typical that a woman would have to choose between her man and her career. She was thinking too much, which was her problem. The intellectual in her was fast overpowering her inner sex goddess.

Apparently, Shane was thinking the same thing. He pulled back the covers and cupped her under her armpits. His skin brushed against her hard nipples, and she shuddered as he eased her up to face him. Even in the slashes of light from the street lamps outside, she could see his gleaming light eyes, hooded with the thickest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. She stared at his curly ’fro, his hawkish nose, his bee-stung mouth. Her eyes trailed down to his strong veined neck, which gave way to broad, brown shoulders, which looked darker against the white sheets. A combination of light and grey curls dusted his ripped chest. God, I could look at you forever!

Chaney sat on her left hip and legs at his side. Shane’s mouth softened into a lopsided smile. It wasn’t going to happen for either one of them that night. Again. Is it me?

She looked down, ran her hand through those chest curls, then gently shook him. She looked down at the glinting engagement ring on that hand. You okay? she asked softly.

Sort of, he said in that fucking sexy, husky English accent that made her so wet that she nearly slid off his dentist’s chair the first time she’d heard it. The brothah who sounded like Jude Law. The contrast was striking. You?

Guilt set in. How could she even think of leaving him? Was she being selfish, having everything she’d ever wanted and still grasping for more? She nodded, looking away.

I’ve got an idea, he suggested. Let’s get some dinner.

Dinner usually meant their favorite place: The Blue Mountain Restaurant with the picture window providing the theater that was Flatbush Ave. The menu, loaded with rice and peas, plantains, and highly seasoned meats, was like crack for folks of West Indian descent, like Chaney and Shane. Bob Marley’s distinct voice, backed up by a slamming rhythm section and the I-Threes, blasted as they waited in the pungently scented, packed-to-capacity anteroom for a half-hour for their usual table. A dreadlocked waiter seated them among the hodge-podge of Jamaican paraphernalia and non-matching tables with tablecloths made of irie colors.

While Shane perused one of the menus that the waiter had given them, Chaney stared out the picture window at April in Brooklyn. The heavy coats were now a distant memory. Passersby walked a little slower than the usual brisk New York-got-shit-to-do stride. Lovers strolled hand in hand. People took their time getting off the dollar van coming from Kings Plaza Mall. Motorists actually talked to one another while filling up their rides at the gas station across the street. The doors to the West Indian takeaways, the record shops that sold reggae mix tapes and CDs, and the Korean grocer that carried products from the islands were all open. The usually madding pace of car traffic down the avenue seemed to slow just a bit. Everyone appeared to be shaking off the clutch of winter. Chaney imagined that the noise outside was probably like music. You ain’t going to see this if you go up to Syracuse, girl!

Chaney looked away from the window as Shane ordered the usual for both of them: the shrimp roti for her, and the curried goat and rice and peas for him, with two Ting grapefruit sodas. She knew it was shallow of her to value how he looked, but damn it, if he wasn’t fine in his white long-sleeved T-shirt, tan cargo pants, and Tims.

She’d applied to grad school right as he’d come into her life. Even though he had his own practice right up the street, he used to go into the public schools and provide low-cost dental care for the children. He’d come to the school where both Chaney and her sister Anna Lisa taught, just as Chaney was realizing that she loved teaching but didn’t much care for fifth-graders.

One of Chaney’s composite fillings had come loose, courtesy of an extra-hard pretzel. Practically at gunpoint, she made her way down to his temporary office. She didn’t want to like him, but three things proved to weaken her. Number one, that accent. The brothah could make the word gingivitis sound like some exotic position from the Kama Sutra. Number two, those hypnotic light eyes. She focused on his soothing stare behind his clear mask and tried to stop the pounding of her heart as he stuck her gums full of Novocain. Number three, the shared heritage. After he found out that her parents were from the Bahamas through making small talk, he told her about his family, and how they moved from Jamaica to London in the fifties to clean up after World War II.

She forgave him the pain as he filled the cavity in her back molar. Three weeks later, she let him fill a more intimate cavity. She was so in love that it didn’t even bother her that she’d been put on the wait list at Syracuse because of the extraordinarily large pool of qualified applicants. Fuck Syracuse! Chaney had something of a career already. And after Shane took her to London last month and proposed to her in such a wonderfully over-the-top fashion in front of Buckingham Palace, she had the man of her dreams. If that made her less of a feminist, then the National Organization for Women could go straight to hell. He made her blissfully happy, and all else was secondary.

Or so she thought. Just like every weekday after school, yesterday, she went to the front door of the house she shared with Anna Lisa, picked up the mail, and saw it. The Letter. She recognized the stationery and the crest almost immediately. Suos cultores scientia coronat: Latin for Knowledge Crowns Those Who Seek Her. Syracuse University was calling Chaney Braxton to embrace knowledge for this fall semester. She’d be the University Scholar in the Instructional Design, Development, and Evaluation department. That meant a full tuition ride for three years. And as a bonus, entrée into the Future Professoriate Fellowship program.

The Letter was still in her purse between her feet under the dinner table. She felt disloyal to him for even keeping it. Keeping it meant that she was reconsidering her promise to become Mrs. Shane Allum. And it didn’t help that, right then, he took her hands into his over the table. She stared down at those beautiful hands over hers. Her hands in his, and that emerald cut diamond-and-platinum engagement ring, said it all for her.

He looked around at the crowded restaurant and rubbed his stomach. God, where on earth is that bloody waiter? I could actually eat a horse and chase the rider!

I don’t remember horse being on the menu, baby.

Well, it better be a massive goat they’ve got cooking.

Chaney grimaced. I still don’t understand how you can eat a billy goat.

Shane scoffed. Billy’s flipping delicious! You should try it.

She gave him a naughty, downcast look. I’d rather eat Shane, she whispered.

He turned sheepish suddenly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Not quite the reaction she’d expected. She looked at him quizzically. What? she asked. I thought you liked it when I…you know… she leaned in …talked like that to you.

He looked everywhere in the restaurant but at her. Honestly, Chaney, it’s a little jarring, he confessed. Having you, the fifth-grade teacher, saying those things.

Ouch! Chaney felt the heat in her cheeks. I didn’t realize, she mumbled.

His light eyes continued to scan the restaurant, like he was the secret service looking for a potential assassin. Maybe I should’ve said something, he said softly.

Her mind warped back to all the times they’d been in bed recently, when he couldn’t complete the mission, when they’d ended up cuddling instead of falling asleep in each other’s arms after mind-blowing, deliciously intense sex like before. She leaned in closer to him across the table, her gaze pleading. Is that why it hasn’t been…

He looked like he knew what she was going to ask. The hurt on his face was obvious. She stopped short. She rubbed her thumb against the back of his hand, meaning to comfort. You’ve got to admit, recently, it hasn’t been magical, baby, she murmured.

He shrugged. It’s never going to be rockets and fireworks every time, Chaney, he said. Plus… his voice trailed off.

Chaney’s heartbeats quickened as she wondered what was going to hit her. Plus what? she asked.

Shane continued to avoid her eyes. She waited for an answer…and waited…and waited until she finally let his hands go, slipped her finger under his chin, and made him face her. She hated what she saw in his light eyes: fear. Plus what? she repeated, louder. More desperate.

He looked like he wanted to say something, anything. But he didn’t. Blood roared in Chaney’s ears. Her stomach roiled. She swallowed hard. Are we in trouble? she asked.

Shane opened his mouth, and Chaney braced herself. But before he could say, a hand slapped him on his back. He broke their gaze to look up, and Chaney did the same.

She recognized him: Shane’s friend, Trevor. Shane and he played soccer in Prospect Park every Saturday afternoon with the rest of the other coconuts—first worlders of West Indian descent like him—the Nigels, Trevors, Gareths, and Conrads, brothahs with very English names. Trevor was tall and dark; he looked like a runway model. He also had this way of looking striking even when he dressed casually. That night, he wore low-slung jeans and a V-necked T-shirt under a sheer black Nike hoodie, and he still made an impression in the crowded restaurant. There was also a woman with him, equally tall, equally striking in a white linen shift and a thin white sweater. She had that aloof air that women have when they know they’re pretty. Though Chaney thought someone should’ve told her to get rid of the obvious weave and equally fake hazel contact lenses that made her look demonically possessed.

Awkward surprise came down on Shane’s face like a thick curtain. He stood up, and he and Trevor shook hands soul-style. Oi! Shane laughed, his voice trembling. What are you doing here?

Is he nervous? Chaney couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she was going to have to wait for satisfaction. It’s a restaurant, dumb ass, Trevor laughed, his New York accent betraying only a hint of his Jamaican roots. He brought the woman forward. I’m treating Merlene to dinner.

Merlene hugged Shane, resting her chin in the crook of his neck. She closed her eyes and sighed. "Let me hold you, bwoy!" she laughed in affected Jamaican patois.

Chaney watched the exchange, fuming. Shane looked back at her, his smile even tauter. What the fuck is going on?! Trevor ran a hand across Shane’s midsection, and Shane laughed, grabbing the hand. Who the fuck dresses you, you bum? Trevor laughed, then finally looked over and acknowledged Chaney. You let him leave the house like this?

Chaney fake-smiled. Her focus was more on Merlene and her arms still around Shane. Merlene stared back, as if daring her to say something. My influence on him isn’t as strong as I thought, she said, quite pointedly. Who’s your friend?

My sister, Trevor said, then introduced Merlene, who gave her a half-assed hello.

Nice to meet you, Chaney lied.

Same, Merlene probably also lied.

Trevor and Shane exchanged a surreptitious glance, then shared it with Merlene. Chaney stared in disbelief at the three of them. What, am I the only one not in on the joke?

Well, Trevor said finally. We’re meeting Conrad and Clover. They’re taking a break from wedding planning.

Chaney looked at Shane. Apparently, so are we…

Everyone said their good-byes, and Shane sat down again. Chaney watched the parting couple in time to see Trevor look over his shoulder and wave to Shane. He quickly looked away, back at Chaney. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he looked unsettled, not his usual easygoing self. She didn’t have time to figure out why. Shane, what’s going on? she asked.

What? he asked.

You were going to tell me something, she reminded him. And then Trevor sashays in here with Merlene, and now all of a sudden, you’re… She stopped short, running the past couple of minutes in her mind. Merlene. Her insides squeezed painfully. Are you seeing someone?

The color drained slowly from his face, giving Chaney her answer. She sat back in her chair and exhaled trembling air from her lungs. But still, she wanted to hear him say it. Are you seeing someone else, Shane? she repeated, willing herself to be calm.

Shane sighed. Not seeing someone, he awkwardly began, but…

Okay, then. Did you fuck someone else outside of our relationship?

He bit down on the inside of his lip and stared at her. Just as she couldn’t stand it any longer, he confessed. Yes.

The truth didn’t bring her the satisfaction she thought it would have. She felt her right hand rubbing furiously at her chest, using the sensation of the cotton against the inside of her palm to focus her mind. Tears pricked at her lids. Why? she gasped.

His eyes were moist. He chewed at his thumb. I dunno why, he mumbled. But I love you, Chaney.

She sucked her teeth. And nothing says that like fucking someone else, Shane. Next time, send flowers!

The dreadlocked waiter just then appeared. Chaney was only remotely aware that he put their food and drinks in front of them with a flourish. She stared pointedly at Shane, her stomach sinking as she thought about what she’d been doing to him only hours before. Who was she? Chaney demanded, as soon as the waiter left.

Shane held his head in his hands. Oh, God, Chaney, he moaned.

Chaney looked over her shoulder. Trevor and Merlene stared back from a few tables away. Chaney turned to face Shane again. Who is it? she commanded, her tone sounding desperate even to her ears. Is it Trevor’s sister?

Shane also glanced at the table over her shoulder. He looked weary, numbed. No, it’s not Trevor’s sister.

Well, who?

He met her questioning gaze. It’s Trevor, he said.

Chaney stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and make fun of her for being so gullible for falling for his little prank. When he continued to sit before her, wilting, looking sadder and sadder, she realized that wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen the signs of infidelity: the shitty sex, the increased time with his boys—his boy Trevor in particular—his emotional distance, his nitpicking at her behavior…Even with the signs, though, it still didn’t make sense. She rubbed harder against her blouse. So, like, what, you’re gay? she finally asked.

Shane closed his eyes and sighed. I think so, yes.

She blinked, and unshed tears spilled down her cheeks. "You think? she laughed bitterly. Either you like pussy, or you like ass. Those are the only two choices on the menu, Shane."

His eyes hardened. It’s not like you to be cruel.

Again, with the wild, hurt laughter. It’s not like you to be gay! We’re even!

His gazed morphed into one of profound sadness. Despite his confession, a part of her wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him, the part of her that loved him with all her heart. I love you, Chaney, and I cheated on you, he sighed.

The other part of her that had begun to hate him wanted to reach across the small rickety table and scratch his eyes out of his skull. With a man! she cried.

Would it have been better to cheat on you with a woman? I still cheated! He was quietly crying, tears plopping into the dark green sauce of his curried goat. I was wrong, he acknowledged, shaking his head.

Her mind played over all the things she’d done with him sexually, all the high-risk behaviors she’d engaged in with the man she was going to marry. The man who now thought he was gay. Silent tears gave way to gasping sobs. Please tell me that, when Trevor was fucking you in the ass…

Shane emphatically pointed in the breadth of his chest. I don’t get fucked, he stated.

Too much information! She stared at him with contempt. He so totally missed the point. ’Scuse me—I’ll rephrase, she said. Please tell me you used a condom when you were fucking Trevor in the ass.

He nodded. Of course, I wore a condom, he mumbled.

Chaney picked up her purse, reached in for her hanky, and saw The Letter. She laughed as she blew her nose into the stark white cotton. She shook her head in disbelief. To think that I actually thought I had a surprise for you! Her heart ached. I don’t understand, she quietly wept.

Bob, Rita, and the I-Threes nearly drowned her out. Sweetie, he said desperately, clutching for her hands. I want to work this out.

She wrung her hands out of his grasp. What are we going to work out, Shane? she asked. What, should we still get married, and me, you, and Trevor are going to set up house in the suburbs? In what parallel universe is this going to work?

A sigh trembled from Shane’s broad chest. The look in his moist eyes was one of resignation, like he, too, recognized the futility of the situation. I don’t know what to say, Chaney, he confessed. I don’t even know how to reconcile this with myself. I’m almost forty years old. I’d never even considered that I might be… he swallowed hard …gay. I don’t know if this was a one-off thing. I have to know, Chaney. I’ve got to follow this through.

I can’t believe this! Twenty-four hours ago, the search had been over for Chaney. She’d found the one person she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with. In less than a day, her hopes and dreams unraveled like the paper-thin plot of a dime-store novel. There’d be no white dress, no fantastic wedding, no children, no Sundays in bed with the New York Times crossword, no growing old together. Not with him. Volcanic emotions rumbled in her chest cavity. I gotta go, she gasped.

Shane’s eyes widened. He grabbed her hand. Chaney, please don’t go, he begged. I love you.

If you loved me, you wouldn’t be gay! She couldn’t give in to her profound grief, not in there, not give up her dignity. It was all she had left right then. She sure didn’t have him anymore. She pushed him away. For the last time, she looked down at that fabulous emerald cut diamond engagement ring and felt heartsick. Like it was on fire, she pulled at it, stressing out the flesh on her ring finger that had grown accustomed to having it there. The metal scraped her skin, grazed her knuckles. Finally, she got it off.

The classy thing to do would’ve been to put it on the table. Fuck classy! She pressed the ring, the symbol of his twisted love for her, into his curried goat. It gave her perverse satisfaction to hear him gasp as he looked at the expensive ring mashed into the greenish-white potatoes of the curry.

Chaney! he called after her as she got up and sifted through the mass of hungry West Indians for the nearest exit.

Chaney picked her way through the street traffic, instinct taking her to the tiny, bleak subway station on Lincoln Rd. She dropped a token into the slot and pushed her tummy against the turnstile. The metal rod slapped against her bottom, pushing her inside the station. She fled down the concrete stairs, sadness filling her up as she willed the train to come. She had one thing to do before she gave in to her pending a full-scale meltdown. She had to sign and mail The Letter.

May 1997

Devin stared around at his family, seated at the massive round table with the white linen cloth. From his seat at the table, he could see the huge red Pike Place Market signs that were such a part of Seattle. Hours ago, he’d just marched down the aisle to graduate from the University of Washington—or U-Dub—with his pre-vet degree. This was supposed to be his day, the culmination of the first leg of his journey to becoming what he wanted to be. But all he thought about and felt was the palpable tension at the table. And there was the polarizing force, all six-feet-five of him, seated facing everyone, nursing his fifth whiskey.

Devin didn’t look much like his father, despite the biological fact that Kenneth Leon Rhym, whom everyone called KL, had given Devin twenty-three of his chromosomes. Aside from the height, Devin was more like his mother in facial features and temperament. He has her flat head, her slanted eyes, though his father’s influence made them a little rounder and Westernized. His father had also added some cocoa to his mom’s yellow to produce a smooth brown that Devin had only seen on himself. He did rock that curly afro, though, that was probably the only sign to outsiders that he was, in fact, a brothah.

His father was a stranger to him. He’d almost forgotten what his father looked like. KL’s visits to Seattle were nonexistent, and Devin used to spend his summers in Korea with his mother’s extended family, this freakishly tall hybrid that practically dwarfed them. Devin did remember that imposing air, though. Even though his father was not in uniform, KL was still the embodiment of a Marine Corps colonel: buzz cut, ramrod straight shoulders, authoritative gait, and touchable testosterone. What the Marines didn’t give him in confidence, years as a JAG prosecutor more than filled the breach. No wonder why everyone at the table looked like they were seconds away from shitting a pickle in that fancy restaurant.

Chauncey, a lawyer, Devin’s older brother and KL’s son with First Wife, sat with his arm protectively around his wife Renee, also a lawyer, who was pregnant with their second child. She fawned over the first child, Jeffrey, who sat next to her in his high chair, playing with a fistful of mashed potatoes and salmon. He was probably a future lawyer. Chauncey, too, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, like this was the last place he wanted to be. Devin couldn’t blame him. He and his older brother were strangers, which could have been attributed to more than the yawning chasm of a seventeen-year age gap between them.

Eric, Devin’s second brother and KL’s son with Second Wife, looked irritated. His desire to pack it in was less subtle, displeasure making his light eyes crinkle at the corners. Irritation compounded by his white girlfriend, Marlene, rambling on about nothing in particular. Nerves, Devin guessed, being surrounded by this motley crew of a family. Devin thought he and Eric would have had something in common; Eric, with his red-tinged slack curls and his light eyes, looked as impure as Devin did. Unfortunately, Eric saw Devin as the enemy in his attempts to jockey for KL’s affections, attempts that went as far as Eric going to law school to be like his father. And he seemed to blame Devin for the fact the KL left his mother for Devin’s.

That left him, Devin, son of Third Wife, Kim-Chin, who sat at his right. His mother who defied convention and left her pussy hound of a husband, took her child, and moved three thousand miles away so they could have a life away from KL and his rules that applied to everyone but him, and his obsessive, militaristic quest for perfection. Kim-Chin, KL’s uppity war bride who made a life for herself and Devin with her own job teaching Korean to Seattle businessmen, and later, with Bill Charles, who showed Devin that real men could be gentle…with the animals in his practice…with the wounded woman who he later married…with her abandoned son.

Kim-Chin, who, despite the stand she took for independence eight years ago, looked like she was about to cry at any second under KL’s caustic glare. Even Bill, who was so even-tempered as to seem inert sometimes, seemed keyed up, like some of the skittish animals that Devin encountered in his practice.

A young waiter in a blindingly white shirt, black slacks, suspenders, and a black tie appeared with a leather-bound check cover that Devin knew, on instinct, held the bill for this majorly expensive drama that masqueraded as a family dinner. The waiter slapped on an obsequious grin. Casting a sweeping glance around the table, he asked, How are we doing here?

KL drained his whiskey glass in one gulp. ‘We’re’ doing just dandy, he declared, boring an optical hole through the poor kid who was probably just doing this to get through college, like Devin had to, because his father refused to pay for anything but a pre-law major.

The barb washed off the waiter’s back. He probably had his share of unruly, no-tip-leaving customers. Good! he laughed, shaking the leather-bound check cover. I’ll just leave this here then.

Both KL and Bill grabbed for the check cover before it could hit the table. Bill won—most likely, Devin guessed, because of the twenty-plus more years KL carried. Bill took the check cover and sat back down in his chair. He didn’t seem to gloat, and Devin loved him even more for that. I’ll get this, Bill said, grey eyes twinkling. Your money’s no good here, Ken.

Devin had never heard anyone call his dad Ken. It was always KL, or Colonel, or Mr. Rhym, or Dad.

Bill took out a platinum card, and the waiter, practically salivating, took everything and went away. KL simmered, and everyone else avoided one another’s eyes until Marlene took up the champagne bottle in the bucket nearest to her, got up, and circled the table, topping off everyone’s champagne glasses. Why don’t we propose a toast to the graduate? she chirped.

Eric looked at her disapprovingly. Only if he wants one, he snapped.

Why wouldn’t he want one? Renee asked. After law school, I spent the first month in a bottle, celebrating!

Jeffrey, the baby in the high chair, cackled and clapped his chubby hands, spewing mashed potatoes every which way.

Renee winked at Devin as Marlene came up behind him and filled up his champagne flute. Devin gave his brothers credit; they sure could pick good women. Like our father.

Who’s going to make the toast? Marlene innocently asked.

Kim-Chin shyly held up her glass. Devin could always tell what his mother was feeling; her face betrayed her every emotion. Today, it was unvarnished pride. I remember when Devin born, she said in her still-halting English. He bring me joy. When I young and first come to this country, I know nobody. Just my son. My baby son. He bring me joy then. He bring me joy today.

It all came flooding back to Devin, his mother’s unflagging care for him, her frustrating attempts to navigate Arlington when her English was so poor, her late-night tears, her heated arguments with his father after he’d come home smelling like some other woman. The only thing that would comfort her was hugs from him. His eyes misted as he got up and practically gobbled her up in his massive arm span. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Omma, he whispered. Sarang hae yo." I love you.

"Sarang hae, Devin," Kim-Chin said.

They both sat down, trying to compose themselves. Bill slipped a protective arm around Kim-Chin, squeezed her close, and dropped a quick kiss in the crown of her pixie cut. Devin saw his father’s hooded eyes narrow further. Clearly, KL wasn’t pleased about the PDA between his ex-wife and Second Husband. Bill, unsuspecting, turned to KL You want to take this one, Ken? he asked.

Devin, too, looked hopefully over at his father. Would he take an open opportunity to say something nice about him, even though KL hardly knew him? Naw, you go ahead, KL said. I’ll go last.

Devin’s heart sank. He looked away, lest he punk out and begin sobbing like he did all those times that KL promised he’d come out to visit him for the summer, only to renege.

Bill looked over at Devin with those kind grey eyes. Devin remembered the first time he’d met Bill, how he’d wanted to hate him for taking his mother away from him…until Bill trained those twinkling grey eyes on him. Devin was instantly won over. Devin, Bill sighed. Until I met your mother and you, the most important thing in my life was my practice and my career. Wasn’t the most demonstrative of fellas. Probably the tight-ass in me. Probably why I spent my life around animals, not people.

He laughed, and Devin joined in. Yeah, you were a little bit puckered there, Bill, Devin agreed.

Bill gave him a look, like he was getting fresh. But Devin knew he didn’t mean any harm. Devin knew that Bill would never take a strap to him, like KL had when he lived under the same roof with his father. Bill’s school of parenting was the noncorporal kind: lengthy lectures, discussions, deprivation of favorite things, looks of unhidden disappointment. Sometimes, Devin wished that Bill would hit him and get it over with. But, Bill said pointedly, with a broad white smile, before I could even grasp what the responsibility of instant fatherhood would involve, you thawed my heart, kiddo. I couldn’t imagine my life without ya. I hope I never find out what that’s like. I love you like you were my own flesh and blood.

Bill stood and raised his glass. He blinked, and a tear rolled down his cheek. To Devin Subin Leon, he said. This is only the beginning, son. You’re going to do great things.

Devin didn’t even raise his glass and drink. He couldn’t. He got up and gave Bill a tight hug. That’s what every son should hear from his father. Thanks, Bill, he said into the wet spot he created on Bill’s shoulder.

Bill patted Devin’s broad back. No problem, big guy, Bill returned with characteristic reserve.

They sat, and Bill sipped at his champagne, as if the display of emotion had drained him like a chunk of kryptonite. All eyes at the table now focused on KL, like everyone was wondering what he would say that would top Bill. The suspense was killing Devin. Just what could an absentee father say about a son he hardly knew? KL looked like he was thinking up something witty to say too, like he was preparing closing arguments that would sink a defendant in military court. Finally, through the pea-soup thick fog of suspense, Chauncey said, Pops. Your turn.

KL pushed the champagne flute aside, clutched his whiskey glass, and stood, unfolding himself to his full height. He looked down at Devin, and Devin’s heart skipped a beat. At that second, Devin regressed to a five-year-old, ten seconds from quaking under the gaze of a man from whom he so desperately wanted endorsement. KL then did something that Devin did not expect: he actually smiled. Devin was immediately sucked in. What can I say, son? KL began.

Say anything, Dad. Anything to let me know you approve…

Devin Subin Leon, my third and last born, KL continued, then took a sloppy sip of his whiskey. I admit that I wasn’t the best father, the most present father for you, son. That wasn’t my fault… his gaze darted to Kim-Chin for a second, then darted back to Devin, ... but that’s the way things turned out. I hope that now, I’ll be able to get to know the man that you’ve become. I think that, once you’ve started law school, like your brothers, we’ll be able to spend hours talking about the cases you’re working on. It’s a rite of passage of us Rhym men…me, your brothers…we’ll all welcome you to the family business, son!

Devin’s face fell. Typical of his father, making assumptions that his life was already pre-planned. Kim-Chin looked away, and Bill, puzzled, glanced over at Devin. Umm…Dad, Devin began, wondering if he still had the courage to go his own way in the face of KL’s almost certain eruption. Dad, I just got accepted to the veterinary medicine program at Washington State University. I start in September.

With a full scholarship and everything, Bill said proudly. He’s going to make an excellent vet. He’s been working with me at the office. He’s gifted.

I know he’s gifted; he’s MY son! KL roared.

Everyone at the table started at the sound of his booming voice. After a second’s delay, Jeffrey, the baby, let out a scared cry. Some restaurant patrons glanced over at the multiracial table to see what on earth was going on. Renee took Jeffrey out of the high chair and held him close to her ample breasts filling with milk for the second one in the oven.

Dad, I told you that I wasn’t interested in going to law school, Devin reminded him, harkening back to five years ago, when he was just looking at colleges. That’s why you cut me off, remember?

Obviously, you didn’t learn your lesson, KL declared. I thought this shit was just some rebellious phase you were going through.

With all the respect that is due in this awkward situation, Ken, you don’t reach the top ten of your class in one of the toughest veterinary programs in the nation with rebellion as your sole motivation, Bill said, quiet but firm nonetheless.

KL strafed Bill with his gaze, but Bill stood strong. Duly noted, Bill, KL said with the appropriate snotty emphasis on Bill’s name, but Devin is my child... a black child at that. I was raised in the segregated south. I know firsthand that the only defense a black man has in this racist country is an intricate knowledge of the law so that he can arm himself for battle with vanilla motherfuckers like you!

Devin felt sick to the stomach. He stared incredulously at his childish father. This vanilla motherfucker clothed me, and fed me, and drove me to swim meets and basketball games; where the fuck were you? This was my choice, he declared. "It’s what I want to do with my life."

Eric reached up, grabbing his father’s elbow. Dad, he cautioned.

KL snatched his arm away. No, son, I’m not going to be quiet! Your brother wants to waste his life playing with doggies and kitties when we live in a world where brothahs get murdered for stupid shit like whistling at white women.

Bill was steadily losing his cool. How can you draw a parallel between those unfortunate incidents and your son wanting to pursue his dream?

How could you not? KL countered.

He wants to step out of his father’s shadow and be his own man.

So, he steps out of my shadow and into yours? His white daddy?!

Immediately, Devin got it. In his father’s eyes, Devin’s rejection of a career in law was a rejection of him as a father. And Bill got it too. He looked hurt. Every day, I’m reminded that I’m only the stepfather of this wonderful kid, Ken, he said softly. I’m the last person who’s a threat to you.

The waiter, looking appropriately perturbed, came over with the leather check cover, which he handed to Bill. He then bravely turned to KL Sir, your tone, he said in a soft, clinical voice. Some of our customers have expressed alarm.

KL looked around and saw everything from displeasure to outright fear from restaurant patrons and the people at his table. Resigned, he slowly eased back down into his chair and shook his head, like he couldn’t believe Devin was defying him, and Devin was getting support from everyone around. KL handed the glass to the waiter. Fill that, he ordered, then fished into his pocket for his platinum card. Charge it.

Of course, Mr.… the waiter looked at the card …‘Rhyme’.

Years of having people fuck up his name set KL off even further, if that were possible. It’s pronounced, like ‘Rim’, as in ‘Fill the glass to the rim, won’t you’?

Reluctantly, the waiter took the glass and disappeared into the scenery. Devin looked at his father, who looked so battle-worn and defeated all of a sudden. And his extreme displeasure with Devin was the cause of that.

The waiter returned with the whiskey, and KL signed for it. The only sound at the table was Jeffrey’s cries slowly ebbing to a fitful whine. Finally, Kim-Chin spoke. KL, you concern with Devin being smart, or being big-time lawyer, she said softly. That don’t make him a man. All I care, he have good heart. That’s how I measure a man. My son is a man. Shame you not see.

KL threw back the whiskey, swallowing the amber liquid in two gulps. Then, he looked at Devin. The pain in his dark eyes cut Devin to the quick. Son, you disappoint me, he declared. There’s a price for this. You just don’t know it yet.

Devin felt all the blood leave his face. Suddenly, all of his accomplishments in his young life meant absolutely nothing. Because his father didn’t co-sign them.

KL struggled to his feet. Eric and Chauncey rose to help him, but KL pushed them away. They returned to their respective positions beside their women, who were sufficiently ashamed at the spectacle they’d just witnessed.

Devin would carry that moment with him for years…watching his father’s broad straight back as he headed for the exit and hearing those words. Son, you disappoint me…

CHAPTER ONE

Both Chaney and the uniformed female Delta Airlines Logistics staffer peered critically into the extra-large plastic beige crate. Two huge brown eyes stared intelligently back, then from behind the black metal bars, appeared to give the grey Washington National Delta office and its blue carpet the once-over. Chaney hiked up her slacks that were about a minute from being too small, stooped, and looked closer into the cage. She put her hand up against the black bars. Almost instinctively, a wet pink nose met the flesh of her open palm. Even though she’d never been a dog person, Chaney smiled. But then, she instantly hardened her heart. She didn’t want to get too attached…just in case this was a huge mistake.

Chaney looked up at the Delta staffer, complete with clipboard, pen, and a sheaf of carbon papers, all awaiting Chaney’s signature. Does that look like a golden retriever to you? Chaney asked.

The staffer gave a jaded shrug, like she had better things to do. Being from New York herself, Chaney was quite familiar with that shrug. She’d used it herself when circumstances didn’t allow you to overtly tell someone to fuck off. What do I know from dogs? the staffer sighed.

Chaney tore herself away from those patient brown eyes and stood up. The eyes followed her. First of all, the dog was a leviathan, all legs and tail, a tail which thumped the plastic and shook the whole cage when its owner wagged it. Secondly, its fur was short, not the typically long hair that draped a golden retriever. There was no draping here. The dog’s hair was so short that she could indeed see that it was a male, complete with a full dangling nut sack. And the dog wasn’t even golden; he was more like a honey yellow color. Chaney sighed. Daisy. She was the older sister; why didn’t she act like one?

The staffer flipped back reams and reams of carbon paper on her clipboard. Suddenly, her faded grey eyes came to life. Here’s the Interstate and International Certificate of Health Examination for Small Animals, she said, scanning it. She looked up from the form and at Chaney. You’re Chaney Braxton, Suffolk Court, Alexandria?

Chaney hovered over her shoulder, reading the official-looking form along with her. Uh huh?

Daisy Braxton sent you the dog from Los Angeles?

Yes, her hippie sister Daisy Braxton, a.k.a. Moonbeam, who took a musician lover on her fortieth birthday, quit her job as program director at the Los Angeles Symphony, and ran off to join him on the European leg of some dreadlocked rock star’s tour. Chaney nodded for the staffer.

"You’re right. The dog’s a yellow Labrador retriever, the staffer announced. His name’s Tony."

Chaney looked down at Tony, lying patiently in the crate. From the recesses of her mind, Chaney recalled why. Yeah, she mused. She named him after Tony Soprano.

Just then, the staffer laughed. Your dog’s named Tony?! she hooted. "Tony Braxton?!"

Suddenly, Tony stood at attention in his crate. Wuh! he barked.

Chaney sighed. So the joke’s on you too, huh, fella.

While the staffer still nursed the vibe she got from the joke, Chaney signed the waybill for Tony and paid the outstanding $280 shipping fee. Again, Daisy was making life interesting and expensive for her. But, Chaney guessed, when one looked like her sister—light-skinned, model-tall, with an ass like a cream-puff and big round titties, life was just a bit kinder to you.

What are you thinking? Chaney looked down at Tony in the crate, stared at his little yellow doggie face. God bless him, he sat up, patiently taking in his surroundings as the most understanding skycap on the planet—an older black man in a blue woolen uniform, requisite cap, and the demeanor of a Southern brothah who’d seen it all—rolled the massive crate on his cart through National’s sanitary terminals, into the shiny bright elevator, and into the always-packed well-lit parking lot in Terminal B.

The minute they got outside, Tony’s nose began twitching furiously as he inhaled the currents of crisp March Virginia air. Not the same as L.A. smog, but you’ll be all right, Chaney said to him, then rolled her eyes. You’re talking to the fucking dog!

What? the skycap asked.

Huh? Oh, nothing, Chaney said, as they rolled up on her prized possession: her champagne-colored Nissan Altima 2.5 S, her vanity purchase to celebrate becoming a business owner, like sixty-hour weeks and no social life actually were worth it.

While Tony proceeded to strain his powerful retriever neck muscles against his inadequate, too-short, blue nylon, Wal-Mart leash and drag Chaney around the lot so that he could pee on the tires of every car, the skycap opened the trunk and shoved the massive crate inside. Chaney could feel the resistance of the thick non-recyclable plastic against the metal of the trunk as she shut it.

Chaney tipped the skycap, put Tony in the back seat, and watched helplessly as he stomped his long-nailed paws against the baby soft leather in his quest to find a comfortable spot. She shook her head. Daisy, I’m gonna kill you when you get back!

They got on the road, Chaney looking back at Tony as she navigated the circuitous route of roads and highways that were supposed to get her out of the airport. She blanched as she watched him shift and dig his claws into the leather, then shake and spew tons of yellow hair all over her leather and grey carpet. This was probably why they’d never had pets as children. Anna Lisa, her older sister, was too busy keeping them a family after their parents died to make room for one more mouth to feed. Chaney herself didn’t mind so much…nothing to get attached to that would suddenly leave. And she couldn’t have imagined herself walking a dog late at night in their Brooklyn neighborhood.

Chaney remotely heard the bleating tones of her BlackBerry and turned down the soothing Sade track on WHUR—Howard University Radio. She reached into her purse in the passenger seat, took out the BlackBerry, and instantly recognized the number with the 718 area code in the digital green window. Anna Lisa.

Chaney pressed the TALK button. Hello, Worry Wart, she said.

Hello, Dr. Hypersensitive, Anna Lisa returned in her